Paul Kemp: Shadowrealm

"Come, Nayan," he said to the shadows as he passed under the archway.

When he was gone, Riven said, "What's next?"

Cale stared after Magadon, his thoughts racing. "What?"

"What's next, Cale?"

"With Mags?"

"No. With Kesson Rel. The Shadowstorm. Hells, Mags too. It's all the same."

Cale shook his head, still unnerved. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Cale turned to face the assassin. "That's right. I don't know. I need some time."

"I doubt we have much," Riven said, eyeing the archway into which Magadon had disappeared.

Cale nodded, stuck his arm outside of the shadow of the spire and into the sun, melting away his hand. He stared at the stump.

"No. Not much."

Tamlin sat in his father's walnut rocker, in his father's study, among his father's books, books Tamlin had never read. He'd spent his life in the shadow of his father, in the shadow of his father's things.

That was over now.

Selune had set and no lamps illuminated the darkness. Cool night air and dim starlight bled in through the open windows. He sat alone, thinking, the creak of the rocker on the wood floor eerily similar to Vees's screams. Tamlin smiled.

Vees had been false to Tamlin, false to Shar. He had deserved death on her altar. Tamlin recalled with perfect clarity the cold hard feel of the dagger's hilt in his palm, the warm, sticky feel of Vees's blood on his hands. He recalled, too, the golden eyes of Prince Rivalen, aglow with the approval Tamlin had never received from his father or Mister Cale, approval that he no longer craved.

He was his own man, and all he'd had to do to become so was give himself to Shar.

Holding in his hand the small, black disc that Prince Rivalen had given him as a meditative aid, he confessed to Shar in a whisper what would become his Own Secret, a truth known only to himself and Shar.

"I have never felt so afraid, or so powerful, as I did when sacrificing Vees."

Clouds blotted out even the minimal starlight, and darkness as black as ink shrouded the room, closed in on him, pressed against his skin. A chill set the hair on his arms and the back of his neck on end, raised gooseflesh. His breath came fast. He felt the caress of his new mistress, as cold and hard as the dagger with which he had killed Vees.

"Thank you, Lady," he said, as the pitch lifted and starlight again poked tentatively through the study's windows.

Tamlin's conversion to Shar had birthed not only a new faith but ambition. He wanted to be more than a servant to Shar, more than his own man. He wanted also to equal then surpass Mister Cale, to transform his body into that of a shade. And he wanted to surpass his father by ruling not merely a wealthy House, not even merely a city, but an entire realm.

He nodded to himself in the darkness, still rocking. He was not his father's son. If he was born of anyone, it was Prince Rivalen and the Lady of Loss.

" 'Love is a lie,' " he said, reciting one of the Thirteen Truths that Prince Rivalen had taught him. " 'Only hate endures.' "

Footsteps carried from the hall outside the parlor. A form stepped into the doorway. Even in the darkness Tamlin recognized the upright posture and stiff movements of Irwyl, the Uskevren majordomo.

"My lord?" Irwyl called. "Are you within the parlor?"

Tamlin stopped rocking. "Yes. What is it, Irwyl?"

"Were you speaking just now, my lord?"

"To myself. What is it, Irwyl?"

Irwyl peered into the darkness, unable to pinpoint Tamlin's location. "There is news from Daerlun, my lord. A missive from High Bergun Tymmyr about your mother."

Tamlin felt little at the mention of his mother. She would not understand what he had done, or why. Perhaps she would even condemn him for it. No matter. He served another mistress, now.

"What are its contents?" Tamlin asked. Irwyl had permission to open and read all documents sent to Tamlin in his official capacity.

Irwyl cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. "High Bergun Tymmyr has made your mother, sister, and brother his personal guests. He asks that you allow him to offer them sanctuary in Daerlun until events in the rest of Sembia resolve themselves. He promises to show them the utmost hospitality."

Tamlin understood the message behind the message. Daerlun had declared its neutrality in the Sembian Civil War. No doubt it had promises from Cormyrean forces to aid it should battle be brought to its walls. Cormyr had long coveted Daerlun and Daerlun, on the border between Cormyr and Sembia, was in many ways more Cormyrean than Sembian. So the high bergun, having heard of Selgaunt's victory over Saerloon's forces, wanted to inform Tamlin that his family would be held hostage to ensure that Daerlun be left out of the conflict to pursue its alliance with Cormyr. For the time being, that suited Tamlin. He had other concerns. Daerlun could wait.

"Acknowledge receipt and understanding, Irwyl. Thank the high bergun for his kindness and let him know that I will repay it in kind. Use both my official and my personal seal."

"Yes, my lord."

Irwyl lingered.

"What is it, Irwyl?"

"Will my lord be retiring soon? The hour grows late."

Tamlin leaned back in the rocker. "I think not. I am enjoying the darkness."

Irwyl cleared his throat. "As you wish my lord. May I retire, then?"

"Yes, but before you do, please send for Lord Rivalen and inform the gatemen that he is to be given entry. I need his counsel. He will be awake."

Tamlin knew that the shadowstuff in Rivalen's body obviated his need for sleep.

"Yes, Lord. Anything else?"

Tamlin glanced around the parlor, at his father's detritus. It was time to make Stormweather his, then Selgaunt, then Sembia.

"Tomorrow I want the parlor emptied of my father's things. New furnishings, Irwyl, for a new beginning."

Irwyl said nothing for a time and the darkness masked his face. Tamlin wished that he were a shade, that his eyes could see in darkness as well as daylight. He felt betrayed by his mere humanity.

"Very well, Lord," Irwyl said, his tone stiff. "A good eve to you."

"And to you," Tamlin said.

Irwyl left him alone with the night, with his goddess. He found the solitude and the darkness comforting but could not shake the chill.

Rivalen sat alone in the darkness of his quarters, his mood as black as the moonless sky. The broken pieces of his holy symbol lay on the table before him.

The requirements of his faith had declared war on the needs of his people. The priest was at war with the prince. He needed to resolve the situation, satisfy both.

Shadows boiled from his flesh.

For millennia Rivalen had kept his faith and civic duty in an uneasy truce, the needs of the one separated from the demands of the other by the gulf of time. Rivalen knew the world eventually would bend to Shar and return to darkness and cold, but he had believed he had many more millennia still, that he could accomplish his goals, and those of his people, before Shar reclaimed the multiverse. Oblivion seemed always in the future.

But synchronicity had disabused him of his delusion. The Shadowstorm was happening now, devouring the realm needed by Shade Enclave to secure its future and resurrect the glory of Netheril.

He must choose his faith or his people.

"Mustn't I?" he said. He held a Sembian raven in his hand. Tarnish blackened the silver.

"Obverse or reverse," he said, turning it in his fingers, seeing the late overmaster's profile on one side, the Sembian arms on the other.

Hope had been his transgression, he realized. He had hoped to resurrect the Empire of Netheril and return his people, and Faerun, to glory. He had hoped-later, much later-to summon the Shadowstorm that would herald the beginning of the world's end. Events had proven him a fool. The Lady of Loss spurned hope and expected her Nightseer to do the same. Rivalen had learned the lesson but wisdom had come too late, and its tardy arrival did nothing to assuage his bitterness, his rage.